


It Was Only A Kiss

by tuesdaymidnight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rimming, babbling!Stiles, stubble!porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaymidnight/pseuds/tuesdaymidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what if Stiles babbled a little when he was under duress? Having a werewolf for a best friend made his life increasingly stressful. He probably should have been more upset at Derek's method of choice for shutting him up, though. Oh well, he could deal with beard burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Only A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm basically just cherry-picking what I want from S2, and the melodrama at the beginning is my attempt to take into consideration the original material from which I am fic'ing. But this is really just stubble porn. Because if Derek isn't rubbing that lovely jaw all over me, he'd better be rubbing it all over Stiles. What.
> 
> As always, credit to OnTheTurningAway and coolbreeeze for making my words pretty.

_This is how I'm going to die. This is how I'm going to die. This is how I'm going to die.  
_  
The mantra was running through Stiles' head along with his racing heart.  
  
There were so many things he wanted to do with his life - like graduate high school, go to college, skydive, try ceviche – he didn't even know exactly what ceviche was, but he figured he should try it at least once before he died. Not dying a virgin was also pretty high on that list. The thought made him struggle helplessly against the zip ties that were keeping his arms pinned behind his back.  
  
Having a werewolf for a best friend got him into some scrapes - okay, almost killed on more than one occasion.  
  
But once the scary Argent patriarch found out that Derek was a little, well, possessive over Stiles (for some reason still unbeknownst to him), he had an even bigger fucking target on his back. It could probably be seen from the international space station along with the Great Wall of China, so it was only a matter of time before he was actually being used as a target for the werewolf-hunting gun enthusiasts. That's how he found himself being clocked in the back of the head with the butt of a handgun, tied up, and shoved into the trunk of a car. He had no idea how long he had been back there. The combination of the darkness and the sound of the rumbling road had made him lose all sense of time and space, he could be in Canada for all he knew, but the car had mercifully stopped.  
  
For a second, Stiles enjoyed the sweet relief of having his head no longer pounding along with every bump in the road, but then there was a horrendous banging noise and his mantra continued.  
 _  
This is how I'm going to die. This is how I'm going to die. This is how-  
_  
And then there was another horrific sound of crunching metal and Stiles was suddenly flooded in bright light. He slammed his eyes shut, slowly blinking them open to adjust.  
  
Derek looking down at him, his expression full of suffocating concern, was not what he expected.  
  
“I know you're not dumb enough not to know that this is a huge trap. You're a bigger know-it-all than Lydia.”  
  
Derek glared at him with that expression he seemed to save specifically for Stiles, the “Do you ever shut up?” glare.  
  
And then he was being slung over Derek's shoulder like a sack of potatoes so fast it knocked the wind out of him.  
  
“We got it covered,” Derek's voice was rough and wolfy.  
  
Even from his upside down angle, bouncing up and down with Derek's gait, Stiles could see that indeed they did have it covered, if by covered Derek meant a pack of angry-at-the-world teenage werewolves demolishing the car Stiles had been placed in. The headlights and taillights were nothing more than shards, the hood and trunk became scrap metal, and the engine looked like a crime scene. Though they appeared to be pantomiming a demolition derby, they were effectively trapping Stiles' kidnapper inside the cabin of the car. There was no way they were going to be able to make it look like an accident, and Stiles vaguely wondered if they had a deal with Curly, the one-eyed junkyard owner. That train of thought died, though, when Stiles looked around and realized that Derek really did have things covered. He knew there had been other henchman at the time he was abducted, and he could hear other vehicles on the road nearby until about five minutes before Derek appeared.  
  
He was about to ask, but then the world was righted again and Derek was snapping open the zip ties like they were nothing and rubbing his hands all over Stiles' body, checking him over inch by inch, scowling at the raw skin where Stiles had struggled against his bindings, cupping his hands around Stiles' face as if looking for any psychological damage his captors might have inflicted over the course of a couple hours, and Stiles sort of forgot to ask.  
  
***  
  
The first time was an accident. At least, Stiles chalked it up to an accident.  
  
Maybe he had been freaking out a little, but when someone who you thought was an invalid cosplaying as Two Face turned out to be a psychotic werewolf, and you barely escaped being caught in the middle of a rather volatile family reunion between a slightly-crazed, still-mysterious loner (who Stiles had once accused of homicide - before sort of befriending) and his legitimately homicidal uncle, freaking out was completely justifiable.  
  
He might have been ranting a little at the insanity of it all, and then suddenly he was being slammed into a wall and Derek was shoving his tongue down his throat.  
  
“Um...” he eloquently said as Derek pulled away.  
  
“It got you to shut up.”  
  
And that was that.  
  
Except it wasn't, because every time Stiles shut his eyes he could feel the roughness of Derek's stubble rubbing against his skin, the memory of which was apparently enough to make another part of his body a little more excited than necessary.  
  
When he finally calmed down enough to go home, his dad asked him what was on his face. Stiles flipped out and ran to a mirror and he immediately understood what his dad was talking about: all around his mouth was bright red, and it looked like he had just eaten a cherry popsicle.  
  
But for some reason, he didn't really mind.  
  
***  
  
The second time wasn't an accident.  
  
All Stiles wanted was a simple thank you. A “hey, thanks for not letting me drown” would have been sufficient, and when he didn't get one, his occasionally problematic habit of ignoring his (admittedly pretty weak on a good day) brain-to-mouth filter kicked in.  
  
“You're welcome, by the way.”  
  
Derek stopped in his tracks.  
  
“I mean, I'm sure that you would have been able to hold your breath for two hours or can sprout gills or whatever, but this mere mortal just tread water, fully clothed, holding onto your heavy ass for the last two hours and it wasn't exactly a walk in the park.”  
  
Derek stalked toward him and Stiles tensed, bracing himself to be shoved against a tree by an angry werewolf, and he was right.  
  
But instead of tree bark he expected hitting his back, there was a leather-jacket-clad arm around him and a hand cradling the back of his head, and a not-all-that-angry-looking Derek just inches from his face.  
  
“Look, I know you're not going to hur-”  
  
Derek cut him off once again by pressing his lips roughly against his, not so much coaxing a moan out of Stiles but tearing it out.  
  
He abandoned Stiles' mouth, who did not whimper at the loss thank you very much, and made his way down his neck, nuzzling his nose against Stiles' skin. The feather-light touch of Derek's nose set his nerves on alert, only to be shocked by the roughness of stubble following.  
  
Stiles could feel Derek inhaling deeply. It should have been creepy, but the way he growled so low in his throat kind of made Stiles weak in the knees, although he tried to rationalize that he was still exhausted from the pool. That didn't account for the sense of loss Stiles felt when Derek pulled back.  
  
“If you'd stop talking once in awhile, maybe I could have thanked you.”  
  
At that moment Scott materialized, and they had to get back on task trying to figure out the mystery behind the kanima and Derek went back to scowling at Stiles for sharing what he called “nutjob conspiracy theories.”  
  
But if the next day Stiles was still tracing his fingers up his neck where Derek had rubbed his jaw against him, well, so be it.  
  
***  
  
The third time wasn't just a kiss. It was straight-up, this close to coming-in-his-pants, frottage.  
  
It had been a relatively uneventful couple of days, which was probably a good thing after the whole 'killing Peter Hale, Derek taking over as alpha, the Argents finding out Scott was a werewolf and declaring war against them' ordeal, not to mention the whole angry lizard trying to kill them all thing.  
  
Now it was the day before the full moon. Scott was antsy from having to pretend (poorly) he wasn't still stupidly in love with Allison and completely pissed off at Derek for biting the not-so-merry band of social misfits, who were all also antsy, and frankly, Stiles had had enough.  
  
He had been planning on tracking down Derek and telling him off for not keeping his wolves under control. Even though Scott wasn't technically a part of Derek's pack, Derek was still the only thing close to a mentor he had and Stiles was pretty sure handcuffing Scott to a radiator wasn't going to work this time.  
  
He probably should have been suspicious when he got out of detention and Derek was sitting in the passenger seat of his Jeep. He started his rant before he even opened the door, but he knew that Derek would be able to hear him anyway.  
  
“What are you doing? How did you get into my Jeep? I'm almost positive I locked the doors when I got out of it. No, I am positive, I've been the kid of a cop my whole life and it has instilled a healthy amount of paranoia in me.”  
  
But then Derek was launching himself at Stiles, and not in the scary way but in the pants are getting tight kind of way, and Stiles had a two second conversation in his head that started with a “I hope I was in detention long enough for this place to have cleared out” and ended with a “fuck it” before he was kissing back. The first two times he had been at Derek's mercy, this time his hands got the memo that, yes, they would really enjoy carding through Derek's thick hair, and yes, Derek really seemed to like when they tugged a little too hard. In fact, the more Stiles pulled Derek close, so his stubble was basically giving the equivalent of a lap dance to Stiles' face, the more Derek growled in what Stiles hoped was pleasure, and Stiles wondered if he would be this turned on if he were rubbing a porcupine against his face.  
  
When the kiss seemed to be going on for way longer than their previous encounters, Stiles' brain decided to come back and join the party, and he managed to pull back.  
  
“Look, I know this your tactic for getting me to-”  
  
This time it was Stiles who was being launched, or more like manhandled until he was straddling Derek's lap in his own passenger seat. Derek's hands were on his ass, a new but decidedly really awesome sensation, and the glorious porcupine of stubble was burying itself in Stiles' neck, until it felt like Stiles' skin was being set on fire. The conflagration culminated when Derek found the magic spot at the juncture of Stiles' neck and shoulder that apparently make him emit a noise that sounded like a dog in heat, and then he sucked on it, pulling the skin between his teeth, leaving behind what was sure to be a “Property of Derek Hale” sized hickey.  
  
Derek pulled away, leaving Stiles panting, his dick damn near throbbing with want and his skin flushed pink. Stiles squirmed, seeking friction but Derek held him back. The only upshot of the situation was that Derek was sporting what was more than just a “Are you happy to see me?” sized bulge in his jeans, and his normally stolid expression was clearly conflicted.  
  
“What was that?” Stiles demanded.  
  
“Pre-emptive strike.” Derek smirked.  
  
Stiles narrowed his eyes. “What do you need my help for now?”  
  
The next night, when Stiles was helping Derek wrangle his werewolves, the lingering afterburn feeling on his face and neck made him stop grumbling about working pro bono, and he knew he was completely and utterly fucked.  
  
***  
  
The fourth time, well, Stiles still blushed thinking about the fourth time. It was more like a marking of territory than anything else.  
  
He and Scott had had yet another close call in the library with the kanima, which they were now 99% sure was Jackson, and after having a ceiling nearly collapse on him, Stiles really just wanted to go home, do his homework, and try to temporarily forget that his life was one big ball of crazy. Even his dad didn't grill him after Stiles gave him the “I don't even want to talk about it” hand raise before trudging upstairs to his room. Of course, nothing could ever go according to plan, because it was only minutes later and Derek was climbing through his window. He looked agitated, like he was crawling out of his skin so much that Stiles didn't even feel like giving him a hard time or a lecture about breaking and entering into the Sheriff's house of all places.  
  
In fact, something that felt a lot like relief coursed through him, so he pushed Derek down on the bed, and climbed on top of him, burying his hands in Derek's hair – their new favorite place – while he mashed their lips together.  
  
It was all well and good, but then it got even better. Derek took over and flipped them, tugging Stiles' t-shirt off and attacking his torso with his lips, sucking and pulling in all the places that made Stiles squirm and bite back moans so his dad wouldn't hear.  
  
He was pretty sure he was feverish by the time Derek took it upon himself to unzip Stiles' jeans and push them, along with his boxers, below his hips. Derek's hand was this close to wrapping around Stiles' dick when he pulled back a little and a battle started playing out on his face.  
  
“You're still in high school. This is-”  
  
“Nope. Nuh uh. I don't care what's going on in that broody head of yours. Do you know how many times I've almost been killed the last month alone? Including attempts made by my own best friend? There are hunters trying to kill people who are really important to me, and you've sort of wormed your way into that category, by the way, not to mention the giant serial killing lizard that decided to sic itself on us in the library of all places. The library. If the library is no longer sacred, nothing is. So if you don't get me off right fucking now, I'm going to spike the local water table with wolfsbane.”  
  
For once, luck was on Stiles' side, or maybe it was just that his raw, animal magnetism had actually driven Derek into a lust-induced state of insanity, because Derek snorted in amusement.  
  
And then there was a flurry of motion and Derek was unzipping his own jeans and then he pressed his hips down against Stiles and there was cock on cock rubbing and it felt better than anything Stiles could imagine. That is, until Derek licked his hand, grabbed both of their dicks, and started jerking them off.  
  
The speed at which Stiles came was embarrassing, but it was made less embarrassing by how quickly Derek followed before he half collapsed on top of Stiles with a groan, not even caring that his shirt was being dragged through the mix of their cum that was painted on Stiles' chest.  
  
Stiles was even at a loss for words for a solid 30 seconds afterward, until he noticed that Derek was actually kind of heavy.  
  
“Typical. Falling asleep right after sex. I'm not surprised you're a cuddler, though-”  
  
But Derek had recovered enough to plant another blistering kiss on Stiles' lips.  
  
“Shut up, St- Shit. Your dad's coming upstairs.”  
  
Then he was out the window and Stiles was left scrambling around for his clothes, opening text books and trying to pretend that he wasn't still wading in a post-orgasmic haze.  
  
He managed well enough to convince his dad he was okay and that the noises he had heard were from a video on his computer. Although he knew his dad knew he was lying, he also decided to play the had-a-ceiling-collapse-on-my-head-earlier-today card, and his dad let him off with a weird look.  
  
Scott noticed that he was acting funny the next day, but Scott was also preoccupied with the side-eye Mrs. Argent had given him that morning, so he didn't inquire any further than to say, “You're going to tell me what's going on with you,” in a pseudo-threatening tone. He made it all the way through school without having to confess that he was maybe, sort of, carrying on some kind of big gay affair with Derek Hale.  
  
But then they were changing for lacrosse practice in the locker room, and he remembered his chest after it was too late. A few hickeys were one thing, but this almost looked like a massacre. In addition to the bruises on his neck, under his collarbones and around both of his nipples, his skin was rubbed raw, like he had showered with a Brillo pad that morning.  
  
It wasn't even Scott who noticed. Even though it was completely against locker room etiquette to do anything other than keep your eyes down and pretend that you weren't in the all together with a bunch of sweaty dudes, Coach Finstock apparently never got the memo. He picked the exact moment Stiles whipped his shirt off to barrel out of his office to bark more orders at them.  
  
Coach stopped mid-rant to make a  _Twilight_ joke of all things at Stiles' expense. “Got yourself a Cullen there, Bilinski?” which of course made everyone turn to look at him and see that he had obviously been claimed by someone who was very much into teeth and sucking.  
  
“More like a Jacob Black,” Scott muttered under his breath, putting two and two together.  
  
“The fact that you know his name is highly troubling,” Stiles cracked.  
  
“Shouldn't you knowing that I know his name also be troubling?”  
  
Even though he was red in the face, Stiles fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest, tried to put on his best impression of Derek's “what now?” face and did a sweeping stare around the room. At least it meant someone was into him enough to attack him and mark him, and it was pretty obvious whoever did it was extremely possessive.  
  
“None of my business, none of my business,” Coach finally said. “So long as it doesn't interfere with your remarkable ability to keep the bench warm.”  
  
Stiles took it as a partial win.  
  
***  
  
The fifth time, well, the fifth time was like breathing.  
  
There was something about almost dying in the trunk of a Chevy Nova that made Stiles a little desperate, and apparently Derek was on board. Stiles should have asked how Derek knew where he was, how they managed to get the other Argent cronies off his tail, but it didn't seem nearly as important as getting back to the Hale house, which actually wasn't nearly as far as Stiles thought it would be. Apparently he hadn't been taken to Canada.  
  
Derek parked the car haphazardly and Stiles was being manhandled out of it before he really knew what was happening.  
  
“Hey! I could have internal injuries or something! You don't have to throw me around like I'm a sack of potatoes.”  
  
“Can't. Wait. Need.”  
  
Apparently Derek using caveman speak was good enough for Stiles because he understood, he did.  
  
He needed it, too. He needed to be claimed. And he didn't for a second feel weak in that need, because the sheer desperation rolling off Derek was so strong, Stiles could practically smell it with his feeble human nose. And if Stiles Stilinski could make Derek Hale feel like  _that_  well, there wasn't any room for shame in the equation.  
  
Of course, that didn't stop him from running his mouth.  
  
“Do we have to do this here? I mean maybe we could go someplace where the roof isn't in danger of collapsing on us.”  
  
But Derek pounced on him and there was a musty sofa underneath him and a horny werewolf on top of him and his clothes were being removed from his body and his hand seemed to be working independently of his brain because they were already trying to get Derek out of his. Stiles gave his hands a mental pat on the back when they reached skin.  
  
For a few glorious minutes Derek was just letting him touch and feel and take, the way he had always done to Stiles, until Stiles remembered he had never done this before and he was more than willing to give up control. He wondered what the best way was to indicate to Derek that he was giving up his body carte blanche, but he settled for putting his hands on Derek's positively sculpted ass cheeks and using that leverage to thrust up and rut against him shamelessly.  
  
“More,” he croaked. “I almost died a virgin in Canada today. I mean, unless a mutual hand job, which was awesome by the way, counts as sex. But I don't really think it does because I lost my hand virginity to myself in middle school. And even though I'm getting kind of used to almost dying, which is probably going to make for some interesting stories in therapy down the road, I'd really, really like to at least get the dying-a-virgin possibility off the table.”  
  
“They weren't taking you to Canada.”  
  
“That's what you got out of that?”  
  
But then he was being turned over and sort of half draped over the arm of the couch with his naked ass sticking up in the air like an offering. He was about to make a crack about the werewolf gods, but then he felt warm breath on the underside of his balls.  
  
“Relax,” Derek half murmured, half growled.  
  
He rubbed his face against Stiles' ass cheek, stopping to leave a wet kiss here and there only to drag his prickly cheek over the same spot moments after. Stiles' skin was tingling in that familiar way, only he was more sensitive, his senses were more alert, then Derek pressed against him harder and he was on fire.  
  
If Stiles thought he was going to crawl out of his skin, Derek upped the ante when his tongue joined in the assault-Stiles'-ass spree. Without warning, Derek licked a stripe between Stiles' cheeks, lapping like a dog at Stiles asshole of all places, and for about half a second, Stiles felt completely awkward and self-conscious about it. Until he heard Derek let out the neediest sounding whimper he had ever heard in his life.  
  
“Is this a wolf thing, like the way dogs sniff each other's butts? Or is this a gay thing? Because I like you and all, but I don't know if I'm ready to take the road less traveled, I mean, if it is a road less traveled and not, like, the way wolves greet each oth- oh-”  
  
Derek pushed a wet finger inside him. Stiles didn't even want to ask about Derek's lubrication procuring skills, which was good because he seemed to be temporarily speechless as he focused on the weird sensation. It wasn't that his own fingers had never wandered down there, but this was something altogether different and he was too busy trying not to tense up and push out like his body wanted him to do to manage sentences.  
  
“Relax,” Derek murmured again. This time his voice was close to Stiles' ear and as Derek rubbed his jaw against Stiles' neck, it gave his nerves something else to focus on while another of Derek's fingers pushed inside him.  
  
It was still awkward as hell, and Stiles was starting to rethink the whole virginity thing and ask if maybe he could just get a blow job instead, when things down there started feeling a whole lot closer to good and a whole lot farther from stop.  
  
“Hello, prostate,” Stiles managed to gasp out.  
  
Derek sucked a mark into Stiles' neck in response before he rasped into Stiles' ear again, “Do you want-”  
  
“Yes. Now. Fuck. Take me.”  
  
The growl Derek let out was borderline wolf, but Stiles' words did the trick, because shortly thereafter, Derek was pushing into him with a lot more than his fingers.  
  
When Stiles imagined losing his virginity, it wasn't like this. He was always so focused on the getting off part, he never considered that it could be so intense that his chest would feel tight and that it would make his usually over-active brain focus on just the way he was feeling.  
  
Stiles forgot about his nerves. He forgot about trying annoy Derek. He forgot everything but the stretching and thrusting and the burning sensation of Derek's body striking against his already sensitive skin with each thrust. He couldn't form words anymore, and without his weapon of choice, he couldn't do anything but surrender to this stage play being performed on his nervous system, directed by Derek.  
  
Derek didn't speak either, which wasn't surprising given that on a good day he could be considered a man of  _few_  words, but he still managed to communicate to Stiles with the way he leaned forward, curving himself over Stiles' body in an almost protective way. Stiles knew that this wasn't just sex or some rush of adrenaline after yet another life-threatening experience, and knowing that made him feel everything just that much more.  
  
He was already on edge, and when Derek's weight shifted so he could take Stiles' dick in his hand, it didn't take much longer for the crescendo to reach its culmination and Stiles came with a strangled cry.  
  
Behind him, Derek groaned and started pistoning his hips faster, thrusting in and out of Stiles' rapidly relaxing body. The noise Derek made when he came was so wolf-like, Stiles' knew there was a crack about a full moon somewhere in there, but his brain was too fuzzy, as if in solidarity with his sated body.  
  
They lay still and quiet awkward. Derek pulled Stiles down on the sofa to spoon behind him. Stiles tried to bask in the afterglow, he did, but then Derek shifted a little and Stiles was reminded of what his skin had just gone through.  
  
“I'm not going to be able to sit down tomorrow because of beard burn. Beard burn. On my ass."  
  
Derek chuckled. He actually chuckled in a way that wasn't mixed in with a growl.  
  
“Aren't you going to tell me to shut up?”  
  
“I almost lost you tonight. I'm never telling you to shut up again.”  
  
“Really? Never? I mean, that's a pretty bold statement right there, because I don't know if you've noticed this, but I kind of have this habit of babbling a lot when I'm nervous or put on the spot or doing anything, really-”  
  
Instead of saying anything, Derek kissed him. Which was effectively the same thing.  
  
But Stiles didn't mind.  
  
He'd just point it out to him later.


End file.
